Confessions of Marie Antoinette Read Online Free PDF Page A

Robespierre and I cross paths as he exits the antechamber and our eyes lock. His are black and cold, like those of a fish. Someone jostles me and presses a paper into my hand, but I cannot, dare not, read it in the middle of a crowd.
    The king quits the Oeil de Boeuf leaving a sea of confused courtiers in his wake, and the two of us repair with the ministers to his private apartments. In the quiet of Louis’s library, Saint-Priest actually throws himself at his sovereign’s feet and passionately urges a decision. “If you are taken to Paris tomorrow, Majesté , you will lose your crown!” The clock atop the mantel strikes the hour of eight. For the second time today, my husband looks to me for advice before he will commit to a course of action.
    There is no thought of leaving him, especially as the peril draws even closer. “We go now,” I say. I kiss his cheek and turn, racing downstairs to the children’s apartments where I instruct Madame de Tourzel and one of their sous-gouvernantes to pack as much as they can. “ Vite, vite! We depart in a quarter hour!”
    By the next chime of the clock the family, including the king’s sister, the princesse Élisabeth, are gathered in the hall below the Salon d’Hercule by the foot of the grand marble staircase. My son and daughter are wrapped in cloaks of inky blue wool and cling to the skirts of their gentle aunt. Madame Élisabeth’s lower lip trembles with fear. Thinking first of the safety of my children, I usher them outdoors into the night. As we set foot in the Cour de Marbre, a jeer rises. The Place d’Armes just outside the gates is crowded with market women. They raise their weapons in the air, holding aloft scythes and pikes. I am grateful that the king’s eyesight is so poor he cannot see these implements raised against us.
    We scuttle along the edge of the buildings like rats, headed forthe royal stables where our carriages await. “A fugitive king, a fugitive king,” Louis mutters, as if the phrase is the most distasteful to ever leave his mouth.
    But no sooner are the gates to the stables thrown wide than the mob cries as one hysterical, furious voice, “The king is leaving!” They surge toward our coaches and hurl their bodies upon the carriages, cutting the harnesses and leading the terrified horses whinnying into the night. We are trapped. Saint-Priest and the comte de La Tour du Pin, who have come to see us depart, offer their own carriages as a last resort. They are harnessed beyond the gates of the Orangerie. If we can manage to make it there without hindrance, we can hope for a more discreet exit from Versailles. But the mob now presses toward us. The regiment of Flemish mercenaries—the only thing that stands between us and this sea of human vitriol—does all they can to keep them in abeyance without firing a single round, for Louis still forbids any attack upon his subjects. There is nothing for us to do but retreat.
    Back upstairs, in the State Apartments, my heart beats beneath my stays, but I betray no emotion. I must be strong for everyone. They have enough fear of their own. Every candle is lit, as if to stave off the demons of the night by creating a perpetual day. Some courtiers pace the Galerie des Glaces, their red heels echoing upon the gleaming parquet. Others sit in the Games Room, playing hand after hand of piquet or écarté, laying their cards and markers upon the green baize with eerie deliberation, as if by prolonging the game they forestall whatever fate lies in store for us.
    At eleven o’clock Louis and I receive a number of courtiers as well as a handful of officers, among them Count von Fersen. Axel’s chin juts angrily and his eyes, their color so changeable, are steel gray tonight, conveying much, even as he speaks little.
    “Give me an order, Your Majesty, authorizing us to take horsesfrom the stable so we might defend the royal family if you are under attack,” he insists.
    I look at my husband but he is deep in